


The Ghost Whisperer

by bees_stories



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Ghosts, Post-Hiatus, Slice of Life, dark fantasy bingo: transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, Molly had offered to help Sherlock any way she could. Now he's back, and she finds they need to help each other, or a young woman's murder will go very likely go unsolved. A post-return story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost Whisperer

***

Molly has a secret: when she talks to the dead, often they talk back to her. Not all of them of course, the departed are no more monolithic in their tendencies than the living. Some of them flee the mortal world as soon as the attachment to their body is severed. But just as many stick around to check on their loved ones or to tie up loose ends that might seem unimportant to those left behind.

Victims of sudden death tend to dwell. Working in the morgue, Molly sees her fair share of them. The heart attacks and traffic fatalities tend to be just as outraged about their fates as the murder victims. Most of them didn't see their deaths coming, and they tend to have more than their fair share of regrets. The phrase 'if only' comes up a lot in conversation when speaking to the suddenly deceased.

The girl on the table was murdered, beaten to death by person or persons unknown. Her ghost sits perched on the edge of the lab bench watching as Molly prepares evidence collected from the autopsy. She has a faintly querulous expression marring what is otherwise a pretty face. Molly is afraid she's going to be one of the angry ghosts who fling glassware about. She's only twenty, and twenty is no age to have died.

"I'm sorry this happened to you," Molly says. She always apologises. Someone should. The police, if they get caught up in the family's suffering, often make promises to the bereaved that justice will be served. But when it comes to apologies and assurances, the actual victims tend to get short-shifted. It's an understandable oversight. 'We're going to do everything we can' seems a pointless thing to say when the person who occupied the body on the slab has presumably already moved on. 

"Yeah," the girl replies. "Me too." She sighs and shakes her head. "I don't get this. I was just going to this club. It's me mate's birthday. We was going to have a party. A few drinks. Some dancing. Nothing heavy. Just some fun, you know?"

Molly glances over. The ghost is wearing a short dress that barely covers her thighs. The actual garment, bagged and tagged and catalogued in the inventory of personal effects, is covered with sequins and made of plum-coloured, body-hugging fabric. In spectral form, since ghosts appear in shades of grey, it appears charcoal. The sequins no longer catch the light. She has long ebony hair that falls to her shoulder blades. It's been styled in spiral curls and then pinned back away from her face with a pair of pins. Only one had been in the corpse's hair, a clasp made of cheap metal plated in gold and studded with a large cubic zirconium. The other had been lost somewhere on the way to the crime scene. Or maybe the killer had taken it as a souvenir. She's wearing heels. Dancing shoes. The actual shoes are in another evidence bag. Black patent leather, one heel broken and recovered a few feet from the body. Molly owns a similar pair of shoes. She bought them for a party she ended up not going to. They've never been worn, and now they're gathering dust at the back of her wardrobe.

The ghost looks at the broken heel in its zip-top bag and pulls a miserable face. "Aw, those shoes cost me a packet. And that was with the discount Donna's brother got me."

"That's a shame," Molly replies. "They're really nice. I'm Molly by the way." She holds out a purple gloved hand. The ghost leans forward and then rolls her eyes when their hands pass through each others. "Oh! Sorry! Sorry!" Molly apologises as she pulls her hand away. She's deeply mortified by her faux pas, but her mind is still mostly on her work, rather than on her guest. "Sometimes I forget."

"Aisha. Aisha Brown," the ghost replies as she examines the stack of evidence.

The rest of her things are there: decent quality stockings, garter belts and frilly lingerie that will raise questions for some of the more cynically minded investigating officers, a handbag filled with the usual sorts of things needed for a night out on the town: identification, lipstick, cash and condoms. According to the autopsy report, Aisha has already given birth. Did she carry the condoms out of habit or because she'd been out looking for an evening's companionship? It was the sort of question the investigating officers will ask, and Molly wonders if she can bring the subject up more tactfully than they might.

"It was the four of us," Aisha explains without prompting. "Girls' night out. We all work at the same place, sewing dresses and suchlike at Maitlands. Me mate Daisy, she's turning twenty-one tomorrow, and she's leaving us cos she's getting married, so we were sort of combining, like, birthday and hen night. Having one big splash out because she's moving up north with Derek – "

Molly listens to Aisha chatter about Daisy and Derek — the groom to be — and her friends for a few moments as she makes a note on her report. In terms of physical evidence, there's not a lot to go on. The murder weapon seems to have been someone's steel-toed boot. Death was from internal injuries caused by a lacerated liver and a ruptured spleen. Molly's collected a few aberrant hairs and fibres off of the clothes and body, but there was no skin under the manicured fingernails that still gleamed with lavender-coloured lacquer to show Aisha had put up a fight. The toxicology reports are pending.

Aisha gets up off of the lab bench. Her body is in a drawer, but Molly has left the table pulled out and the sheet off its face. She's learned it's generally easier on everyone if the deceased gets a private viewing after they've had a bit of time to calm down. She follows into the autopsy room and watches Aisha's reaction to confronting the irrefutable evidence that there will be no more parties with her mates.

"That's me?" Aisha says. Her voice is heavy with disbelief, but that's a fairly typical reaction. Those who don't move on right away generally have trouble getting their heads around their deaths. "Damn," she adds softly as the sheet ripples and then lifts. "Has my mum seen me?"

Molly shakes her head. "Not yet. There's going to be a formal identification in the morning. Do you remember what happened to you?" It's something she always asks, but no longer expects a direct answer to. Most ghosts suffer from traumatic amnesia. If they didn't then murders would be solved by mediums and not the CID. 

She hears the sound of the rollers and then the latch engaging as if the door has been slammed shut. Aisha has gone invisible and the room has gone very cold. Molly holds her breath and waits to see if Aisha will re-materialise. Sometimes the shock is enough to send the restless dead on their way.

"Aisha?" Molly calls softly. "Aisha, are you still here?"

There's no answer. Feeling shaken, Molly goes down the hallway and gets a coffee from the machine. When she returns a few minutes later, Aisha is back and talking to the ghost of a nurse called Sadie. Sadie died during the flu epidemic back in 1918, but she claims there's much too much to do, and no time to rest. Molly suspects Sadie won't move on until the last patient is discharged from Barts. At times like this, when a ghost is upset and not coping, Molly is glad of Sadie's calming presence.

Sadie pats Aisha on the shoulder and gives her a motherly smile. She turns the smile on Molly, but there's concern in her eyes. "You're working late again, Miss Hooper."

A chiding from a ghostly workaholic seems ironic, but Molly takes it in stride. Sadie lives her life, so to speak, vicariously through others. She was downright thrilled when John had started making regular appearances to walk Molly home after her shifts had ended, but their time together had been brief and bitter-sweet, borne of obligation on her part, and grief on his. They had parted as friends, but not without regrets, and now that Sherlock's back there's an uncomfortable tinge of guilt that colours their meetings. Molly has started dating again, although not as often as Sadie might wish, and when she does, she's careful to avoid men on the rebound; the sex isn't worth the inevitable heartache that follows.

"I wanted to get started on Aisha's case so the detectives can have the information when they arrive in the morning," Molly explains. "You know how it goes."

She can substitute 'Roger' or 'Emily' or any number of other names. Molly and Sadie have had this conversation before and it always ends the same way. Sadie will shake her head and drift through the doorway to continue her unending rounds, whilst Molly is left with the vague sense that no matter how hard she works on the behalf of the dead, until she's well ensconced in a new relationship, Sadie is going to fret on her behalf.

But a ghost's concern, especially when it's based on social mores nearly one hundred years out of date, is nothing compared to the time sensitive nature of a murder enquiry. They have so little to work from. A few hours can mean the difference between justice for Aisha and her murderer getting away scot free. 

"I'm just trying to look out for you, dear," Sadie says, and it's clear she really does want Molly to be happy.

"I know," Molly replies. She has to swallow hard over a lump in her throat. She's so used to the role of caregiver that being the object of someone else's concern is uncomfortable. "And I appreciate it. I do. I'll just finish up here and then head home."

Sadie smiles in approval. She whispers something softly to Aisha, and then she's on her way again. Molly watches as she passes through the door without opening it.

"She reminds me of my Auntie Bea," Aisha says. "Right down to the that long apron and scarf thing." Her hand mimics Sadie's stiffly starched white headdress and then it flies to cover her mouth, and her eyes widen. "Oh God! Matthew!"

"Matthew?" Molly asks.

"My boy!" Translucent tears flow down Aisha's cheeks. "Auntie Bea was watching him for me. Three years old, his daddy scarpered, and now he's gonna grow up without a mum." She scrubs tears from her cheek. "All cos Daisy wanted to check out a new club. It's not fair!"

Life wasn't fair, and now Aisha is learning that death isn't either. It makes Molly angry. Aisha is – was – by most measures, a nobody. A girl from a Stepney council estate with modest dreams and minor aspirations. A case like hers will get regrettably little action from the police officers who are assigned to investigate it. There's no point in expending the energy when more high profile crimes will capture the attention of London's citizens and they, in turn, will demand the police devote all their resources until the culprit is brought to trial, or something else more exciting grabs the city's consciousness.

The door rattles. Molly looks up, startled, as Sherlock Holmes enters the room with a box of glass sample jars tucked under his arm.

"Someone's been mainlining caffeine," Aisha observes, momentarily distracted from her grief by Sherlock's unexpected appearance.

Molly smiles a greeting at Sherlock. Aisha's right. Sherlock does look jittery. She wonders if it's too much caffeine, nicotine withdrawal – because he's going through one of his periodic attempts to quit – or just plain nerves at being back in familiar, but somewhat hostile, territory. Automatically, she looks for John in Sherlock's wake. But the door swings shut and Sherlock leans against it, so it seems he's alone.

He returns the smile tentatively, evidently as surprised by Molly's presence as Molly and Aisha are at his arrival. "Miss Hooper."

"Mr Holmes," Molly replies just as formally.

"Wait a minute." Aisha jumps off of her perch and rushes over to Sherlock. "That's Hatman!" She gapes at Molly and then squeaks, an oddly surreal reaction given her circumstances. "You know Hatman? What was up with that whole faking his death thing?"

Molly shrugs. If Aisha's still around later maybe she'll fill her in. Or not. She wonders if her promise to Sherlock not to confide in anyone is restricted to the living.

"What are you doing here?" Molly asks, not because she's angry at his unexpected intrusion, but because she's genuinely curious.

Sherlock glances in Aisha's direction, frowns as if he senses her presence, and then raises the box of samples. "I had a theory I wanted to test, but I couldn't find the necessary glassware to do my experiment. Mrs Hudson packed all my things away when I left." He glances enviously around the lab. "It'll probably be simpler to start over new. I was hoping you would let me set up in here for awhile."

"Yes, of course," Molly replies automatically. For a moment, Sherlock seems intensely relieved, as if he needed the solace of familiar surroundings as much as proper glassware for a chemistry experiment. "Are you settling in all right otherwise?" she asks.

They haven't really had a chance to speak since Sherlock has come out of hiding. The talk around the water cooler has it that he's been hanging around crime scenes, cap pulled low over his face, as he watches the police go about their investigations. Those who are observant and also like to gossip say his expression is often wistful until he notices that eyes are upon him, and then it hardens into haughty indifference before he turns and walks swiftly away.

He's burnt a lot of bridges by faking his death, and destroyed hard won trust that won't be easy to regain. Molly has learned during those awkward coffee dates with John that despite the public brave faces, not all is well at 221B Baker Street. Those who want a private detective are knocking on other consulting room doors, and Sherlock has been forced to take on cases that, before his self imposed banishment, he would have rejected out of hand.

Sherlock seems nonplussed. "Why do you care, Molly?" he asks after several uncomfortable moments. His gaze bores down on her as if he can see through to her soul.

Aisha pulls a face. "I thought this guy was supposed to be smart." She traces a heart in the air and sighs dramatically. "Girl, you should see the look in your eyes. Tell me there's not history."

Molly looks away from Sherlock to glare at Aisha, but she can't very well explain, not when Sherlock is standing there looking at her so oddly. She picks her words carefully, so that hopefully she can explain to them both. "Because, I'm still your friend. And for whatever it's worth, I know if you'll let me, I can still help you." She shrugs as she gets up from the bench, struck by a sudden inspiration. "Put your things down. I want you to meet someone."

She inclines her head towards the autopsy room. Sherlock follows, but Aisha stays behind. It's just as well. If things work out the way she hopes, it would be better if they continue in private.

Molly opens the fridge door exposing Aisha's body. She pulls back the sheet and gazes down on Aisha's battered face, so slack and peaceful despite the violence of her death. "Her name is Aisha Brown. She was twenty years old. A single mum, with a three year old son named Matthew, who worked sewing clothes for a living. She was found this afternoon, dumped in a rubbish skip not two miles from here. There's no CCTV, no witnesses, and negligible forensics. I want you to find her killer."

"Why?" Sherlock asks. "Molly, dozens of people just like her come through this morgue every year. What makes her so special?"

Molly looks up into Sherlock's face. He's genuinely perplexed at her interest. His reaction makes her angry. "Nothing, Mr Holmes. And that's the point. The police will spend five minutes and decide her case is a lost cause. Her family deserves more. I'm hiring you, on behalf of her son, to make sure they get it."

"Molly Hooper," Sherlock says softly. "Look at you. All grown up."

"Don't mock me," Molly replies fiercely. "I helped you when no one else could. Now I want you to do this for me."

Sherlock holds up his hands in a defensive position. "I wasn't mocking, Molly. I was admiring how you've changed in my absence. You've become … quite remarkable."

Molly ducks her head as she blushes. She's never been good at accepting compliments, they embarrass her. But she's earned her moment of pride, so she looks up and meets Sherlock's eyes. "Thank you." She looks down at the corpse. "Will you help?"

Aisha is standing in the doorway, watching from a distance as Sherlock draws back the sheet further and begins his examination of the body. "Size eight and a half boots," he mutters. "There's a defined bruise, there along the right side of the torso." He traces a pattern without touching the corpse. "We need a photo."

Molly smiles at Aisha to let her know that she's in capable hands, and then goes to get the evidence camera and a notepad. Though her shift has ended hours ago and she should be tired, Molly feels refreshed and energised.

Sherlock dictates; a steady stream of information the pathologist who had conducted the post-mortem had omitted from his report. Not because he was slapdash or incompetent, but because Sherlock is just that much better. By the time they've re-enacted the assault; Molly playing the victim and Sherlock her attacker, Aisha is in tears.

"This was a brutal crime," Sherlock pronounces savagely. "Emotional and ugly. A dog shouldn't die this way, let alone a young woman."

It's clear Sherlock has been affected by Aisha's death. When Molly notices his eyes, it's not the fierce light of intellectual curiosity that's shining brightly, it's cold anger that involuntarily makes her take a step backwards. Whatever happened after The Fall has transformed Sherlock as well.

"I'm finished here," he announces. "I'm going to take a look at the crime scene, and then, if it's not too late, have a word with her family." He glances over at Molly. "You can come with me if you like."

Molly nods. She'd promised Sadie she'd head home after she'd finished the paperwork, but a night of crap telly and a takeaway meal can wait. Tonight people, both the living and the dead, need her help, and she's going to give it to them.

End


End file.
